


That's the Way You Showed Me (That I Wasn't Quite Alone)

by enigma731



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 09:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8973541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: Three long-distance Christmases, plus one that finally wasn't.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenofthepuddingbrains](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthepuddingbrains/gifts).



> A smol fluffy surprise for my favorite ninja.

1.

12/24/2012

_What about this one?_ asks the text that makes Clint’s phone chirp and light up the dim cubicle with a blue glow, just enough to make him jump.

He picks it up with a sigh, swipes to the message, and is unsurprised to find a grossly triangular plume of flames engulfing what appears to be the remains of a car. It’s the third picture of its type that he’s received today, though he hasn’t responded to the previous two, has opted instead to keep slogging through the stack of reimbursement requests he’s been tasked with entering into the S.H.I.E.L.D. financial database. Desk work, he swears, is a worse punishment than losing his clearance altogether, even if there’s a non-zero part of him that thinks murdering fellow agents ought to warrant far more than torture by paperwork. 

The phone vibrates in his hand, the video call notification impossible to ignore no matter how much he feels like brooding silently. He swipes at it again, mustering up the ghost of a smile when Natasha’s face appears on the screen.

“Oh,” she says lightly, “good. I was getting worried that you might have fallen asleep on your keyboard.”

Clint blinks at her, feigning surprise. “You think that’s why my last entry says the expense report was submitted by Agent Zzzzz’s?”

She rolls her eyes. “You didn’t answer my question yet.”

“The answer is no,” says Clint, as he realizes on some vague level that this is the first real human contact he’s had all day, the first time he’s felt anything aside from the bitter numbness that seems to be his default state of existence since having a demigod inside of his skull. “You cannot substitute an explosion for a Christmas tree. Not even if it’s the shape of a tree. Not even if you’re in the field.”

She looks thoughtful for a moment. “What about a tree that’s on fire? That’s kind of like lights, right?”

“No,” he repeats. “We’ve been over this, Nat. Christmas trees are Serious Business. Gotta be authentic.”

“Or maybe you’re just a Christmas tree snob,” she teases, wrinkling her nose. 

“Nah,” says Clint, closing out of the database he’s and leaning back in his chair. “Arrow snob is the only kind of snob I am.”

“Last week you told me you were a pizza snob,” she points out.

“Pizza connoisseur,” he corrects. “Where are you anyway?”

Her face falls at that, almost imperceptibly, but he knows her too well to miss it. “Classified. Or so I’m told. I think that just means Sitwell can’t pronounce the name of it.”

“You can’t tell me,” he says quietly. “Because I’m on probation. One of these days, I’m gonna remember not to ask.”

“Hey,” says Natasha, her tone warmer again. “Looked in your desk drawer lately?”

Clint raises an eyebrow, pushing his chair back a few inches. “No. Why, is it on fire too?”

She snorts. “Look and see.”

He does as he’s told, setting the phone down and pulling out the drawer. The file folders have been replaced by a large red tin, inside of which are at least three dozen freshly baked and decorated cookies.

“Did you make these?” he asks, realizing that some of them are shaped like arrows, and slathered in gaudy purple glitter.

She nods, grinning. 

“When?”

“I’ll never tell.” Her expression turns sly. “Merry Christmas, Clint. Eat an extra one for me.”

“I’ll save you some,” he says instead. “For when you get back from Classified.”

She laughs. “I suppose I can allow that too.”

2.

12/25/2014

_Mission Alert,_ says the preview of the text message on Natasha’s phone. She frowns, tries to convince herself to ignore it, mainly because reading the rest would require removing at least one of her gloves, and it’s currently five below.

Not to mention the fact that S.H.I.E.L.D. is gone, and there’s nobody to give her any legitimate orders. Lately there’s just the sea of spam and scam messages, at least half of which claim to be from the United States government, which just happens to urgently require her credit card information. Unfortunate side effects of releasing your personnel file to the world at large. 

Finally she decides she won’t be able to focus on anything else until she reads the message, slips her hand free of its insulation and cringes against the cold. Russian blood or not, she still hates the sharp, cruel feeling of the chill. 

_Mission Alert,_ reads the text. _Grandma got run over_ \--

“Hell no,” Natasha snaps at the phone, swiping away from the message as if it’s burned her, and pressing the icon to call its sender instead.

“You’re a menace,” she tells Clint the second he picks up.

“Me?” He gives her his best innocent tone. “What, you get my briefing?”

“A _menace_ ,” she repeats. “But it’s not going to work. I am not going to let you earworm me when you’re not even here.”

“Hey,” says Clint, still sounding entirely too gleeful. “Far be it from me to deny you Christmas cheer just because you happen to be off the grid at the moment.”

“I’m not off the grid,” she grumbles. “I’m in St. Petersburg. And Christmas isn’t until January here, so you can keep your cheer to yourself.”

“Oh,” he crows. “Does that mean you want a repeat performance in a few weeks?”

She actually takes the phone from her ear for a moment to glare at it, then mentally selects her most strategic counter-attack.

“Santa baby,” she croons into the mouthpiece in her best lounge singer voice, laughing when the line immediately goes dead.

3.

12/25/2015

Natasha wakes in the pre-dawn darkness with the distinct sense that something is wrong. For a moment she lies still in bed, trying to place it. It’s more than just the sense of sterility she gets from the Compound, or the longing she has for her tiny New York apartment, which came with a world that made a lot more sense. It’s more than the loneliness she’s been trying to shove to the back of her mind lately too, more than the ridiculous sense of nostalgia that’s been making her wonder what it might have been like to have Christmas in the Tower.

Realizing that she isn’t going to get back to sleep, she sits up and switches on the light, then freezes. The door of her room is closed, as she’s left it, the system of biometric locks intact according to the tiny blinking green light on the panel that rests on her nightstand. But there’s an invader hanging from the post at the foot of her bed -- a large red felt stocking with a black hourglass on it. 

She narrows her eyes, then snatches it up, realizing it contains something with a bit of weight. Slipping her hand inside, she finds cold porcelain, which turns out to be an oversized mug, filled with bagged tea.

_World’s Most Bad-Ass Boss_ it proclaims, backed by another bold hourglass. For a moment she just smiles dumbly at the thing, something twisting behind her sternum. Then she scrambles for her phone. 

“Oh god,” Clint groans, when he finally picks up. “What time is it?”

It’s only then that Natasha remembers timezones are a thing that exist, but she quickly decides that she has no sympathy, because he’s invaded her bedroom with gifts, for one thing, but also because he’s failed to put his phone on silent while sleeping.

“You,” she says by way of greeting, “are a Christmas ninja.”

“What makes you think it was me?” he asks. “And not one of the superheroes you live with?”

“Because,” says Natasha, not missing a beat. “You are a Christmas ninja. It’s not like this is new.”

“Fine,” he sighs, doing his best to feign irritation. “Fine. It was me. Well, me and Steve. And Tony. Tony helped with security.”

“Oh, good,” she says dryly. “So what you’re telling me is that I’m the boss of a team that’s conspiring against me?”

“Yes,” Clint agrees enthusiastically. “Conspiring to give you everything you deserve.”

“That still sounds vaguely threatening,” she insists, then pauses. “How about next year, we conspire to actually spend it in the same place?”

He laughs softly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

+1

12/23/2016

Clint hesitates for a moment before ringing the doorbell. The house is a little not-quite-cottage with a backyard that borders directly onto the beach. There’s an actual white picket fence out front, and two pink plastic flamingos on the lawn. If he had to pick a place that was less Natasha’s style, he’s not sure he’d be able to come up with one.

She answers the door as promised, though, in shorts and a tanktop, her hair dark and loose around her shoulders. 

Clint raises an eyebrow. “Florida? Really? Taking the whole mandated retirement thing a bit literally, don’t you think?”

She shrugs, grinning. “Just doing what Ross wanted. Not that he’ll ever get to know.”

“You always were a rule follower,” he teases, working to keep his voice even. It’s been months since he’s seen her, since he’s seen anyone familiar, really. A risk, to be sure, but worth every bit as far as he’s concerned.

“You want to come in?” she asks. “Or did you just come here to make fun of my house?”

“Do they have Christmas in Florida?” asks Clint, stepping inside as she moves to make room. “I mean, it’s like eighty degrees. I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of rule against _that_.”

“If they don’t,” she counters, “then what are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer that in words, just steps in and wraps her in a hug. Natasha leans in like it’s as natural as breathing, like they weren’t trading punches the last time they met in person. She curls her fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt, rests her chin on his shoulder.

“I missed you,” says Clint, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Merry Christmas,” she tells him softly. “And it’s about time I got to say that to your face.”


End file.
